


Temporal

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: 6.21 AU, Drama, F/M, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Lizzington - Freeform, anon tumblr prompt, in general, obviously, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 00:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: "And only once Red is sure he’s dead, punished for his crimes, his intentions, hisaudacity, does he turn to look at her.“You alri—”But Red stops short, the query drying up and dying in his mouth because there she is, leaning heavily against the back of her FBI van, but she’s looking at him oddly, her eyes too big and her face too pale, and Red knows in his bones that something is very wrong."6.21 AU where Red is just a few seconds late in killing Liz's assailant in the parking lot. She gets shot and the rush begins to save her. Written for an anon prompt on tumblr. T rating with some violence. Lizzington.





	Temporal

It all happens very quickly and very slowly at the same time.

In one moment, Red is speeding to the address Lizzie gave him when she last checked in, where they were going to collect the witnesses, and he’s snapping at Chuck every few minutes to drive faster.

(He misses Dembe for his punctuality, among about one thousand other things.)

But Red has no need to be there, and Lizzie didn’t ask to meet him. That’s the oddest part; he just has  _a feeling_. A feeling that he should be where Lizzie is right now, a scratching, clawing feeling, starting in his stomach and working its way up his throat, making him grind his teeth and work his jaw. He doesn’t like this feeling.

(But he recognizes it, his instincts setting off alarm bells in his brain, and it’s making dread settle low in his stomach.)

So, they’re hurrying to the place where Lizzie is and Red hears the gunshots before the parking lot even comes into view.

And what he sees then makes his blood run cold.

Firstly, there’s another car, standard government issue, peeling away from the scene and, by the way Donald is throwing his hands in the air and letting out a stream of colorful curses, Red assumes they have the dossier.

“Give chase?” Chuck asks from the front, all business.

And Red’s about to say yes, especially when he sees Lizzie, safe and sound, catching her breath at the back of their FBI van and checking her empty clip, looking effortlessly beautiful, as always, but then his eye catches another movement.

He looks over to see a suit, clearly a government agent left behind for dead with a nasty looking gunshot wound in his side, rising unsteadily from behind a parked car.

And aiming his gun at Lizzie.

Who’s looking the other way. With an empty clip.

“No!” Red roars and Chuck takes a millisecond too long to find the danger – longer than Dembe would on his worst day – before he’s slamming on the gas and skidding into the parking lot.

Red’s window is already down, his gun aimed and waiting to be close enough to get off a shot.

“Hurry!” he barks at Chuck and it’s only then that time seems to slow down.

He watches the man stumble into the car nearest him, bracing his weight there and propping his shooting arm up to aim directly at Lizzie, a nasty sneer painted on his face that makes the edges of Red’s vision turn red, fury bubbling up from deep within him, because  _how dare he_ –

And he’s half out of the window and desperate to stop him but the car is still moving and he’s still not close enough, and he can’t afford to waste a bullet, not when Lizzie’s life is on the line.

(Not that he would hesitate to strangle the man with his bare hands if he had to, just for daring to  _look_  in Lizzie's direction and even  _contemplate_  harming her.)

But time is still crawling and Red turns his head with some difficulty to glance at Lizzie. He sees the moment she catches movement out of the corner of her eye and turns, just in time to see the gunman aiming. Red sees the moment she realizes, her blue eyes widening and her mouth opening in silent protest, her hand jerking her gun upwards before visibly remembering that she’s out and there’s nothing she can do to stop it, it’s happening too fast but so, so painfully slow and –

Red sees the second she gives up.

“NO!” he bellows again and that seems to kickstart time, as it catches up to its normal speed, and then bypassing that to kick into fast forward as Chuck hits the curb and skids into the parking lot, tires squealing as he brakes and Red’s  _finally close enough_  –

And he’s shooting through the open window before the car comes to a halt, getting four bullets into the man before he knows what’s hit him, the sheer force of it propelling his body back into the parked car behind him, clearly dead or nearly there, but it’s just not enough for Red.

So, he opens the car door, stepping out with ease before the vehicle is fully still, stalking forward across the lot like death himself, continuing to riddle the body with bullets, emptying his clip into him, just to be sure,  _absolutely sure_ , that the poor,  _stupid_  man who tried to kill Lizzie is  _dead_.

(The bastard shouldn’t even have tried. He had it coming the second he made that choice.)

Red fires his last bullet just as he’s coming to a stop over the body, glowering down at the dead man with fire in his eyes and in his heart because  _no one touches Lizzie_.

(Not even Red.)

And only once Red is sure he’s dead, punished for his crimes, his intentions, his  _audacity_ , does he turn to look at her.

“You alri—”

But Red stops short, the query drying up and dying in his mouth because there she is, leaning heavily against the back of her FBI van, but she’s looking at him oddly, her eyes too big and her face too pale, and Red knows in his bones that something is very wrong.

“Lizzie?”

And he watches, more scared than he’s ever been, as she starts to slump sideways towards the ground, staring at him all the while and –

And her body leaves a bloody smear on the car behind her.

His heart stops beating.

“ _Lizzie!_ ”

He’s running the short distance to her, every limb and digit feeling horribly cold, knowing he won’t get there in time to catch her, he’s too slow, too old, and he’s hating himself with every step –

But there’s a blur in front of him as someone else darts towards her and Red almost lifts his gun to shoot, out of pure protective instinct, until he sees that it’s Chuck, who throws himself to the ground to catch Lizzie’s prone body, just in time.

(Red regrets every resentful thought he’s ever had about the man.)

Red gets there a second later, throwing himself to his knees, ignoring the sharp crack as they collide painfully with the asphalt, and Chuck doesn’t hesitate in passing Lizzie to him. Red places one hand under her head and the other around her waist to gently pull her into his lap.

“Lizzie –”

She’s conscious, barely, and her eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice to peer blearily at him. Red’s hand comes up to mindlessly stroke her cheek as his eyes dart over her, searching desperately for her injury. Unfortunately, it’s not hard to find and he can’t help but release a choked exclamation when he sees it because –

There’s a bullet lodged in the soft spot where her neck meets her shoulder – the bastard must have gotten one shot off before Red could stop him – and the normally pale skin is coated in red, bleeding profusely onto the edge of her coat and shirt.

“Oh, Lizzie –”

He can’t seem to stop saying her name, the only two syllable word that can keep him grounded right now in his panic, as he stares at her wound, gushing blood as he watches, bleeding quite a lot actually, more than the distant, logical part of his brain expects, and what –

Oh no.

As gently as he can, Red reaches up and pulls the bloodstained edge of Lizzie’s coat out of the way, trying to get a better look at her wound. He stops, terrified, as she lets out the smallest whimper of pain at the sensation, no doubt tugging awfully at the broken skin.

“I know, sweetheart, I know, I’m sorry, Lizzie, I just need to see…”

He murmurs quietly to her as he leans a little, getting a clearer view of the hole in her shoulder, just to see if –

“Shit.”

Her carotid is punctured.

(And he has a sudden memory of pens and hotel rooms and falling unexpectedly in love. But no, this time,  _this time_  it’s so much worse, it’s bullets and parking lots and the incapacitating fear that he’s  _going to lose her_  –)

But Red is startled out of his fear by the gentlest touch of a hand, Lizzie’s hand, brushing weakly against the fingers still holding her coat back and Red looks at her face, her eyes wide and scared.

“Red…”

It’s the weakest whisper of his nickname, the one he stole for himself years ago, the only one he has anymore, the one she calls him, that jerks him out of his stupor.

(It brings back memories of the last time she spoke to him like that, right before she went under in a warehouse after giving birth, right before she di—)

No. He will not lose her again. She needs him now.

So, he leaps into action.

“Chuck!” he barks, and the man is at his side within a second.

“Sir?”

“Help me get her in the car. She needs a hospital. Now.”

He obeys without question, moving to Lizzie’s feet and gathering a hold of her legs, while Red moves to her head and cradles her there, getting a better grip around her shoulders while trying desperately to avoid her wound.

“Ready?”

“Go.”

And they’re lifting her and moving, as quickly and carefully as they can, to the black Mercedes that came screaming into the lot not three minutes ago, and more memories are threatening to overwhelm him, carrying her out of her apartment with a wound hidden under her hair, making his hands wet with blood, and she slept for  _so long_  –

Lizzie cries out in pain, weak but enough to scare him, snapping him back to the present, as Chuck helps him lay her across the back seat.

(This time, Tom isn’t in the car with them and that’s at least one thing to be thankful for but, oh, it’s still all Red’s fault and hasn’t she been through enough?)

As soon as the door to the backseat closes, Red is tearing around to the other side and climbing in, while Chuck dives into the driver’s seat.

“Where to?” Chuck asks, already peeling out of the parking lot. “Should I call for a mobile medical station?”

“No,” bites out Red, leaning forward to strip off his jacket before settling back to arrange Lizzie. “Hospital.” He lifts Lizzie’s head into his lap.

“But, sir –”

“We don’t have time,” Red barks, moving Lizzie as gently as he can, trying not to jostle her. “She’s losing too much blood, she needs a hospital  _now_. Where’s the nearest one?”

Red doesn’t wait for an answer, wasting no time in wrapping his right arm around her waist to keep her on the seat and using his left hand to press the light fabric of his jacket against her wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. Her quiet whimpers of pain cut into him.

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I’m trying to stop the bleeding,” he murmurs quietly to her.

“Seven minutes, boss.”

“Shit,” Red mutters under his breath. “Get there. Now.”

And Chuck hits the gas, being mindful of any turns so as not to disturb the bleeding woman on his boss’s lap as he speeds to the hospital.

Red turns to Lizzie.

She’s gazing up at him through bleary eyes, half closed and blinking slowly, the bright blue not nearly as piercing as usual.

“Red…”

(Time is moving slowly, viscously, like molasses around them, and he hates it.)

Her hand comes to rest weakly on his hand that rests on her waist, squeezing lightly, so faintly that Red can barely feel it.

“Lizzie…”

He squeezes back, firmly and fiercely, watching as her eyes repeatedly drift close and then snap open again, hating every pothole and inch of uneven pavement in the streets of D.C. that make her gasp and wince.

“Hold on, Lizzie, we’ll be there soon.”

Red doesn’t dare move his balled-up jacket from her neck, too afraid of what he’ll see there, but he can feel her blood soaking through and wetting his hand at an alarming rate.

“Raymond…”

A shock goes through Red as he hears his full name, the one that isn’t his, but she calls him nonetheless, his stolen name, the one she calls him when things are at their most tumultuous, the one that never fails to send a thrill through his chest.

“Raymond, I…”

The whispered words slice through him, reminding him again of that day when he thought he lost her forever. And her eyes are slipping closed yet again, making panic squeeze his chest painfully.

(The sensation reminds him of being shot in the chest, that time when their positions were quite reversed, with his bleeding body laying on the seat of another moving Mercedes while Lizzie knelt in the footwell and tried to staunch the bleeding. What a horrible day. And yet Red knows with every fiber of his being that he would take a hundred bullets to the chest to spare her this.)

“Lizzie, please stay awake, sweetheart, you can do it, stay awake for me…”

He’s murmuring nonsense to her, not really sure what he’s saying, just reveling in the fact that whenever she hears his voice, her eyes open with renewed vigor and she gazes up at him with the most desperate expression.

“Raymond, I…”

“Don’t try to talk, sweetheart, it’s okay, I’m here…”

“Ilya…”

That stuns him into silence, that name, his name from the distant past, who he used to be. He’s not sure if he wants Lizzie to know about who he once was or if he prefers her knowing only the re-invented Raymond Reddington, the man he is now, and no matter how much he thinks about it, he just can’t decide.

(But he can’t deny the fact that every time she whispers his Russian name to him, her eyes staring deeply into his, he gets the strangest feeling, like her soul is speaking to his, and he gets the oddest urge to call her Masha.)

She must see the distance in his eyes, the way he unintentionally dissociates from the situation, because she’s squeezing his hand again and trying to speak.

“Red, I…I need…”

And he’s leaning closer, straining, desperate to hear what it is she needs, because he’s never been able to deny her anything.

(Even his heart.)

“What is it, Lizzie?”

“Agnes…” she’s murmuring, and he can see her face screwing up in pain at the effort that speaking is starting to take, her face rapidly losing color and her grip on his hand weakening. She’s losing too much blood. “I need…Will you…A—Agnes…”

And Red feels tears gathering in his eyes as he understands what she’s trying to say. She’s bleeding out in his arms and all she’s worried about is her daughter and how can she even question that because of course he’d take care of Agnes if anything happened to Lizzie, he already did when she –

Red grits his teeth.

“Agnes will see her mother again, Lizzie, don’t worry about that, do you understand? You’re going to be fine, do you hear me?”

And he can see her lips twitch at his insistence and he’s sure if she had the strength then she would roll her eyes fondly, but she can only squeeze her eyes shut and cough weakly, the sound far too wet for his liking.

(And, oh, he’s so scared.)

“Red, it hurts…”

It’s a hoarse whisper and she sounds so much like the scared little girl that he once knew that Red feels his heart constrict once more in response, absolutely aching for her.

“I know, sweetheart, I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t fast enough, Lizzie…”

But her eyes are drifting closed once again, this time with a finality that scares him more than anything he’s ever experienced, as if some heavy weight is pulling them down and if he doesn’t see them open ever again  _he doesn’t know what he’ll do_  –

“Red…”

It’s her faintest whisper yet and her eyes are closed and he’s panicking because –

“Lizzie, stay with me, please,  _please_ …”

And he’s chanting nonsense to her unconscious form now, just desperate to see her eyes open again because –

“Oh, Lizzie…”

Because the thought of descending back into the crippling darkness of her first death has him planning a return trip to Cape May and this time visions of Katarina won’t be there to help him through it and he knows without a doubt in his mind –

“Lizzie, please,  _I can’t lose you again_ …”

(He won’t survive.)

And then the car is screeching to a halt and he looks up and away from Lizzie’s slack face for the first time in this endless seven minutes to see they’ve finally,  _finally_  arrived at the hospital, and there’s emergency staff running to meet them.

A renewed sense of urgency overtakes him.

(He’s not giving her up. Not this time.)

Chuck opens Red’s door, holding the jacket to Lizzie’s neck while Red clambers out around her. Time catches up to itself once again, things moving in a flurry around him. Red starts speaking to the first doctor he sees.

“Gunshot wound, punctured carotid, heavy blood loss, unconscious.”

“Let’s get her out of the car.”

They work together, Red, Chuck, and the staff, to extract Lizzie from the car without jostling her and move her over to a gurney.

As soon as she’s safely strapped on, they start to roll her inside, with Red jogging along beside her, continuing to press his jacket to her wound. The automatic doors swish open for them and the sterile scent of the hospital has never smelled so good.

(It’s means she has a chance.)

They’re making good time, the doctors pushing her along towards the double doors that lead to the operating rooms, and Red is going right along with them, pressing and hoping, she’s going to make it, Lizzie’s going to be okay, he’s not leaving her alone for a second –

He’s stopped by a hand catching his arm.

Red jerks around to glare at whoever has pulled him away from the gurney, from Lizzie, and it’s a nurse. He only spares her a glance because they’re going on without him, pushing her through the double doors and he’s losing her and  _that_   _can’t happen_  –

“You have to stop here, sir, only family members are allowed further.”

He whips back around to face the nurse, incredulous and furious and panicking all at once. “No, I have to go with her, I –”

And the doors are closing and Lizzie is being wheeled out of his sight and he  _has to follow_  –

“Sir, are you a relation?”

And what a ridiculous question, a ridiculous rule, because what does it matter at the end of the day, why do they always have to be relations, they are more to each other than those useless words can possibly describe, Lizzie is simply his  _reason for living_  but that’s not what she asked. “No, but I –”

She’s trying to keep him from Lizzie, stop him from being with her, but he has to be there, he’s all she has, and isn’t that a  _sad state of affairs_  –

“Sir, I can’t let you –”

“I have to –”

“Please, sir –”

_“She’s my wife!”_

The words are out of his mouth before he even realizes it, the secret wish pulled from him without his consent, desperation wrenching the untruth from him because he can’t  _let her go_  –

“I’m her husband, she’s my wife. I have to go with her.”

(And it’s simply because he can’t speak the other word, the one he’s never accepted, the one that traps him in a box she only just freed him from and he can’t possibly be closed back in there, not for a single second more, not when what he feels for her when she’s bleeding out in his arms is absolutely  _pulling him apart at the seams_ –)

“Right this way.”

And it works, like a charm, without a doubt, and Red wishes it were only that easy all the time, but he doesn’t have long to yearn because the nurse is leading him to Lizzie and he follows like she’s taken a piece of him and  _pulled_.

He follows her down the hall, passing operation rooms on both sides, until she finally pushes open another set of doors and comes to a stop in a small waiting room.

“You can wait here. Your wife is in one of the operation rooms in this wing. She’s probably already in surgery. A doctor will come to you with any updates as soon as he can. We’re going to take good care of her, don’t worry. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Red blinks, a little taken aback by the sudden onslaught of information.

(His head is still in the back of a Mercedes with Lizzie’s blood all over his hands. He knows he’ll never forget it.)

“No, thank you.”

The nurse looks at him sympathetically. “Perhaps a place to wash up? You don’t want your wife to see you like that when she wakes up, do you?” Her words are kind but have an undercurrent of strength to them, as if she’s used to managing shocked people. Red imagines that she’s had a lot of practice with that.

“No, of course not,” he murmurs, glancing down at his hands. They’re covered in red. The sight fills him with a strange mixture of disgust and fascination.

(It’s so bright.)

The nurse touches his arm to get his attention. “There’s a bathroom through there,” she advises him, pointing off to the side of the waiting room. “Will you be alright?”

“Yes,” he mumbles, not completely sure if he’s telling the truth but suddenly craving the privacy of a small room. “Yes, I’ll be fine.”

The nurse eyes him a little skeptically, watching as he hurries into the small bathroom and shuts the door, the sharp snap cutting him off from any routine noises in the waiting room, enveloping him in silence with a suddenness that is jarring. He blinks.

(Time feels curiously frozen all of a sudden. Is the world still moving on the other side of the door?)

For a long moment, Red just stands there, staring blankly at the small blue bar of soap on the sink, the one color in the room that attracts his attention, trying to gather himself. He’s in a hospital bathroom. Chuck drove him here and the waiting room is outside and he’s in a hospital. A bathroom.

Red continues to stare at the soap.

It’s a new bar, he observes from outside himself, but it’s a dull cornflower color, bland and lifeless, looking disturbingly like Lizzie’s eyes as they sped here –

_Lizzie_.

(And he’s still seeing her all too clearly in his head, looking up at him in panic and pain, wordlessly pleading with him to  _save her_  –)

Red presses his back against the door and slides down, hitting the floor with a thump, all the air leaving his body in a wordless gasp.

Lizzie was shot,  _Lizzie was shot_  –

He was too late, he couldn’t save her –

She was bleeding so much, there was  _so much blood_  –

They’re working on her right now, she’s fighting for her life –

(And right now, in a different way,  _so is he_.)

Red’s breaths are uneven and tears are escaping his eyes and he’s quickly descending into a panic attack with no one there to save him and  _oh_  –

He brings a shaky hand up to wipe at his eyes and jumps, physically startled by the red blood still coated there. He completely forgot that was why he came in here in the first place. And somehow the bright red color, his namesake, helps to ground him, so unlike the washed-out blue that’s making him panic. He stares at the red while he works on evening out his breathing, blinking the last few tears out of his eyes and stilling the shaking in his hands.

He has to pull himself together.

(Lizzie needs him. And he needs her, so badly. He’ll feel better when he’s close to her.)

So, he needs to get cleaned up.

Red takes a deep breath and stands, pushing himself up from the hard floor with effort, using the sink to pull himself up. He leans there for a moment, squeezing his eyes closed as his vision fizzles out and back in, fighting the brief bout of dizziness, before he turns the water on as hot as it will go and grabs that damning bar of soap.

He tries to think of nothing, tries not to look at the red suds disappearing down the drain, tries not to think about the symbolism and what it means. He just scrubs and scrubs until his hands are no longer red from blood but from the scalding hot water instead, clean and sore. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he’s finally finished, when can look at his hands and actually see them, his own skin, not Lizzie’s blood, an awful token of what occurred in that parking lot less than an hour ago.

(He wants to forget it more than he wants to breathe.)

Red refrains from looking in the mirror as well, not wanting to see what he looks like, not really caring. He should probably wash his face, but he can’t quite handle it. He came in here to have a panic attack and wash his hands, nothing else.

(One thing at a time.)

He places the soap carefully back on the little ledge on the sink, trying desperately to ignore how the blue bar is now stained with pink, how he’s left his mark on it whether he wanted to or not.

How inevitable it was the minute he decided to touch it.

(And there’s some more symbolism in there that he’s not even close to being able to handle right now, red staining blue and he already knows he’s altered Lizzie’s life forever, probably for the worse, and he doesn’t need the reminder right now  _thank you very much_  –)

“Family of Elizabeth Keen?”

That’s a loud voice from out in the waiting room, traveling suddenly through the door and startling Red.

It’s a doctor.

With news.

_Lizzie_.

Red throws the door open.

“Here!”

If the doctor is surprised that Red came bursting out of the bathroom, he doesn’t show it. He strides over to Red immediately. His face looks grim.

(Oh no.)

“Elizabeth Keen?”

“Yes, how is she?”

“Not good, I’m afraid.”

(Please, no.)

“What do you mean?”

“The bullet shattered upon impact with her collarbone and we’re having trouble removing all the fragments. We can’t stitch the wound until it’s clean or we risk serious infection. Meanwhile, she’s still losing blood. We’re working as fast as we can but…things don’t look good.”

( _No_.)

Red thinks he can feel his heart stop beating.

“No, you…you don’t understand…you have to save her…please…”

Normally, this is the point where he would intimidate, threaten, _kill_  until he has the assurance that he will get what he wants. But there isn’t time now, there isn’t time to get Lizzie to someone he trusts, someone he has control over, she doesn’t have that long. And things aren’t looking good. This doctor and his team are all he has.

(They are his only hope.)

So, he can do nothing but ask, beg,  _plead_.

“Please,” he says to the doctor once more. “She is… _everything_.”

The doctor looks evenly at him. “Sir, I assure you we’re doing the best we can. Just…be prepared. I have to get back now.”

He turns without another word, striding back towards the operating wing, leaving Red behind absolutely gasping for air.

_Be prepared._

How could he possibly be prepared for the death of the most precious person in his entire life? Be prepared for Lizzie, gone? No, there is no way.

(It didn’t work the first time either.)

There’s no one else in the waiting room and there are plenty of chairs around him but Red doesn’t sit. The notion of holding himself still right now is completely laughable. Not while Lizzie is fighting for her life.

And so, Red begins to pace.

He tries to keep his mind carefully clear, thinking only of the repetitive motion of walking and of Lizzie, wishing desperately for her to be strong and push through this, like she has so many times before.

(Too many times.)

But, as focused as he is on staying focused, there is still a small, active part of his brain that is making plans. Plans he hoped he would never have to make again, not after that first time. Never again.

(But he’s planning a return trip to Cape May. And this time it will be one way.)

Because if Lizzie is gone, there is simply nothing and no one else for him. Even Dembe has left him, and, surely, no one will notice if he –

Red stops short, hearing Lizzie’s desperate voice in his head as clear as day.

_“I need…Will you…A—Agnes…”_

Red squeezes his eyes shut. Agnes. Lizzie asked him to take care of Agnes.

(Of course.)

Red begins pacing again, his mind backtracking and picking up at a new speed, now making different plans, happier, brighter ones, that include a seaside village somewhere in Europe and a happy little girl that looks  _so much like her mother_  –

Red chokes back tears as he walks.  _Lizzie_ , he thinks desperately to himself.  _Please, Lizzie, be strong._

And so Red paces. Helplessly, desperately.

And he waits.

( _Please_.)

And it’s twenty-three minutes later – minutes that he was both urging faster to know her fate and willing slower in case the outcome is what he fears with his whole being – when he hears that same clinical voice.

“Mr. Keen?”

Red whips around.

(And half of him is expecting Tom to be there in the waiting room, rushing over to the doctor and excluding Red from the situation, just like last time. But, no, Tom is dead and Red told them he’s Lizzie’s husband and he needs some sleep soon or he’s going to  _lose his mind_  –)

“Yes?” he croaks, fear constricting his throat, almost making him gag, because what if –

But no, the doctor is smiling at him, looking tired but pleased.

“She’s alive.”

And Red almost collapses on the spot out of sheer relief.

“Oh,” he gasps, really just a burst of air leaving him, all that fear and pain and sadness being exhaled in one grateful, glorious rush. “Oh, thank god.”

The doctor nods. “It was close,” he tells him. “But we got the bullet fragments out, closed the wound, and set her up in a room with a blood transfusion. She’s still heavily sedated and will be asleep for some time, but you can come see her if –”

“Yes,” Red blurts, before the doctor is even finished speaking. “Yes, please.”

The doctor simply nods and beckons him to follow, leading him through the doors and down the hallway into the surgical wing, passing a number of empty rooms before turning to open the door to a clean, quiet, dimly lit room with no windows but a chair and a bed and –

_Lizzie_.

Red feels faint at the sight of her, pale and drawn with an IV attached to her arm and a large bandage covering her whole left shoulder and side of her neck. She’s alive. She’s breathing and alive and Red can hardly stand in his relief.

(They’ll be alright now, both of them. And Agnes still has her mother. Oh, thank god.)

“You can stay here as long as you like,” the doctor speaks again, making Red jump. He almost forgot about him. “Ring for a nurse if either of you need anything. A doctor will be in to check on her periodically.”

“Thank you,” Red murmurs, not taking his eyes off Lizzie. But, when he hears the door start to close behind him, he makes a quick decision, ripping his eyes away from Lizzie to turn and face the doctor, grabbing a hold of his arm before he can close the door.

“Doctor,” Red looks him straight in the eye. “ _Thank you_.” He says it with as much conviction as he can muster, wanting the man to understand the depth of his gratitude.

(And the debt that he owes him. The debt he will never be able to repay because he  _saved her_.)

The doctor looks at him for a moment, steady and long, and finally nods. “You’re welcome, Mr. Keen. She’ll be just fine.” He leaves and pulls the door shut behind him.

Once he’s out of sight, Red turns back to Lizzie, sleeping peacefully in the hospital bed, looking small and weak.

(How deceptive. Lizzie is the strongest person he knows. And he aches to be near her now.)

Red is spurred into action by the thought, hurrying forward and quietly moving a chair to her bedside. He doesn’t sit yet, instead moving to hover over her, brushing one hand lightly against her cheek, reveling in the feeling of her soft warm skin against his palm.

( _Ah_.)

Something inside of him rights itself with suddenness and Red realizes that something vital was left in disarray when she was in danger, something that could only be fixed by this, by feeling her warm skin on his and knowing that she’s going to be alright.

(And holding his hand to her warm face with the comforting beep of the heart monitor in his ears goes a long way towards banishing the awful memories from the back of a stationary ambulance. This is different. This is everything.)

Red blinks tears out of his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in this endless day, not wanting anything to obstruct his view of Lizzie. He needlessly adjusts her blankets, just to have something to do with his hands, pulling them up slightly to better cover her. He doesn’t want her to be cold.

With a final pat to her pillows, Red sits down heavily in the chair. He gazes at her for a minute more, unable to stop looking at her cherished face, before he gently takes her hand in his, carefully lacing his fingers through her lax ones, wanting to convey to her in any way that he can that  _he’s here_. He hasn’t left her for a second through this whole godawful day and, if there’s any way she can feel him in her drug-induced sleep, he wants her to know.

(He never wants to leave her.)

Once he gets comfortable, sitting there as close as he can to her with their fingers entwined, Red starts to feel the turmoil of the day settle, all the panic and pressure and fear oozing out of his system and weighing his eyelids down, making him sleepy. He tries his best to stay awake, repeatedly forcing his eyelids open after blinks that take a little too long, jerking his head back up from resting on his chest for minutes at a time. But here, looking at Lizzie, resting and peaceful, Red can’t help but resign himself to a few minutes of sleep. She won’t be up for a little while anyway.

(And, with her hand wrapped up in his, he’ll know the minute she wakes. And he’ll be here.)

So, exhausted, Red leans over to lay his head down on the side of Lizzie’s bed, right next to their entwined hands, where he has a perfect view of her sleeping face, and his head is pillowed just the slightest bit on her thigh.

_Just a few minutes_ , he thinks fuzzily, already succumbing to sleep.

(And as his eyelids slip closed, he thinks he’s never been more comfortable in his entire life.)

* * *

Red wakes to an oddly pleasing sensation on his scalp, like feathers drifting across his skin, soft and loving, and he hums deep in his throat before he can stop himself.

(It’s been many years since he woke so blissfully relaxed.)

Red hears a soft chuckle, one that sounds so wonderfully familiar that his eyes open out of pure instinct. He blinks a few times and lifts his head slowly, lazily, to see her smiling at him.

Lizzie.

(She’s never been the first thing he’s seen upon waking, but he loves it so much it takes his breath away.)

His grip must have loosened in his sleep because Lizzie’s hand is gone from his, but it’s the one that is currently stroking his face, stunning him into silence. She’s looking at him with a sleepy smile on her face, gazing at him with a quiet sort of contentedness that he would love to see on her face every day for the rest of his life.

“Red…”

(And the soft murmur, all warmth and love, is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, completely obliterating the memory of her pained gasps in the car not twenty-four hours ago, blowing it away like cobwebs in a warm summer breeze. It sounds like life itself.)

“Lizzie,” he murmurs back, and, overcome with emotion, he takes her hand from his face – immediately missing her touch – and brings it to his lips instead, placing gentle kisses on her fingers, palm, wrist, all while looking right into her eyes, watching while they slowly fill with tears.

(And they take a moment, breathing, staring, accepting that they’re here, alive and well. For the most part.)

It’s with that thought that he decides to speak. He doesn’t want to break the reverent silence resting in the air between them, but he has pressing questions.

“How are you feeling?” he asks her quietly, his voice low and a little husky from sleep. Lizzie’s lips quirk in response. “Are you in any pain? Should I get the doctor?”

Lizzie considers him. “Yes, I’m in pain, but it’s nothing I can’t manage for the time being. I don’t want to go back to sleep just yet.”

Her voice is scratchy and quiet, also representing the toll of the last several hours, but she seems to be telling the truth. Red gently places her hand back on her bed, resting it by her side, but he doesn’t let it go.

“All right,” he murmurs. “A few minutes then. I don’t want you to be hurting.”

Lizzie shrugs her uninjured shoulder. “I was shot, Red. A little pain in unavoidable, unfortunately,” she says. “But I’m alive, which is what matters. And it’s all thanks to you.”

Red’s mouth twists in a grimace. He doesn’t quite see it like that. If he had only been quicker, perhaps had better aim, he could have –

“Red, what happened?” Lizzie interrupts his internal self-deprecating tirade.

Red blinks, surprised. “You don’t remember?”

Lizzie frowns. “Yes, I remember what happened in the parking lot and bits of the car ride, but I meant here in the hospital. What did the doctors do?”

Red works his mouth, easily remembering his all-encompassing fear for her. “The bullet shattered against your collarbone, but they got all the fragments out and stitched you up.”

Lizzie observes his face, scrutinizing him in her usual way. “And?” she presses, knowing from his tortured expression that there is more to the story.

Red feels his eye twitch. “You…lost a lot of blood,” he works his mouth against the words, hating how they feel in his mouth. “It was…touch and go for a while.”

(An awful, terrifying while.)

“Oh,” Lizzie breathes, understanding, her eyes widening.

(She must be imagining Red’s panic, knowing how he reacts to her in danger, the lengths he has gone to protect her. And what he’s done when he’s lost her.)

Red squeezes her hand, pushing through his own discomfort at the memories and focusing on her, infusing a bit of playful lightness into his tone. “But you’re going to be just fine, Lizzie, I promise. You just need plenty of rest and lots of fluids and you’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Lizzie laughs softly, going right along with his efforts to make light of the situation, seemingly glad for the change in topic. He chuckles along with her, delighted to see her in good spirits, until he sees her wince in pain. Red glances down at her neck and sees pink beginning to show through the snow-white bandages.

“Time for some pain meds?”

Lizzie sighs, annoyed. “Yeah, I think so.”

Red pushes the call button without hesitation, rubbing his thumb back and forth along the back of her hand comfortingly. Feeling useless, he starts to fuss. “Do you need anything else? I could open these curtains, even though I’ve no idea what time –”

“Red, I mean it,” Lizzie murmurs quietly, interrupting him easily despite the soft tone of her voice. He stops and looks at her. “Thank you. For saving me. We both know I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

Red feels another flash of guilt run through him. That’s true. If he had just been there in time, then Lizzie wouldn’t have been shot and she wouldn’t be in the hospital at all. This is all his fault.

(Most everything is.)

He opens his mouth to reject her thanks – surely, he’s never deserved anything less – but the nurse choses that time to enter the room, bustling inside with an air of purpose. It’s the same nurse that took him to the waiting room when they first got here.

“It’s good to see you’re awake,” she greets Lizzie cheerfully. “Time for some more morphine?”

“Yes, please,” Lizzie says, giving her a rueful smile.

“There’s no shame in that, dear,” she says. “You were in pretty bad shape not too long ago and your body needs to rest. Don’t hesitate to help it along a little.”

Lizzie just smiles at her, nodding lightly in agreement, and the nurse continues to chat away unprompted.

“And your lovely husband has been here the whole time, just waiting for you to wake up,” she says, casting Red a fond glance. “He’s been so worried about you.”

Red freezes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lizzie’s head turn sharply to face him, her eyebrows high on her forehead.

Oh no.

The nurse babbles on, completely unaware of what she’s done. “I’m glad he got some rest once you two were together, it’s been a long day for you both.” She makes a beeline for Lizzie’s IV and wastes no time in injecting more morphine into it, taking a moment to check Lizzie’s monitors when she’s done that. All finished, she turns to them both. “He hasn’t left your side for a moment, honey. You should be very thankful for him.”

There’s a beat of tense silence, during which Red doesn’t dare look at Lizzie.

(He wouldn’t blame her if she kicked him out right in front of this nurse, the presumptuousness, the arrogance, oh, she’s going to be so  _angry_  –)

“Oh, I am.”

Red whips around to look at Lizzie. She’s smiling at him, an eyebrow quirked, looking fondly amused.

(Oh.)

The nurse simply beams at them. “Ring if you need anything,” she reminds them, and leaves, shutting the door behind her.

Red lets out a breath. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry, they wouldn’t let me –”

“I know,” she interrupts him. “I’m not mad, it’s all right. I’m just glad you’re here, Red, you should know that. After all, you’re kind of all I have.”

Red’s eyes flit to Lizzie’s face at her words, very surprised and a little in awe, to see she’s already looking sleepy, no doubt from the morphine coursing through her system. Her renewed sense of adoration, evident in her tone, still irks him.

She’s looking at him now though, observing his expression through slightly heavy eyes and frowning in response. “What’s wrong, Red?” she asks but she’s slurring her words a little, struggling to stay awake.

Red’s heart rate picks up as panic grips him. He doesn’t know how long she’ll sleep and, while he certainly wants her to rest, he needs her to know how undeserving he is of thanks before she goes to sleep and leaves him alone.

(Otherwise, the guilt will eat him alive.)

“Lizzie, I’m…I’m sorry I was too late.”

He mutters it, feeling ashamed of the words, wishing he could have done better, been quicker, and saved her all this pain.

(He wanted to save her.)

“Oh, Red,” Lizzie murmurs, and her tone is gently chastising, strangely light considering what he just admitted, and he’s frowning at her, confused. But she seems unconcerned, simply leaning her head back and closing her eyes, getting comfortable against her pillows. And his heart stumbles in his chest as her fingers readjust their grip on his to pull him closer before she succumbs to sleep.

“You weren’t too late. You were just in time.”


End file.
